


Wait for it

by shootingstar11



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootingstar11/pseuds/shootingstar11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yo, I know. And fucking get this, they traded ‘em for only one guy. A center.”<br/>And now Kent’s really pissed, because he’s going to lose his two wingmen and his damn position in the same day. “Who’d we get?”<br/>He only hears “Zimmer…” before he drops the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *throws multi-chapter Kent/Jack fic into the void* Validate me
> 
> All rights go to Ngozi, for creating this wonderful (life-ruining) comic that has bettered (destroyed) my life.

The worst part of this whole season, Kent thinks, is that he doesn’t even get to play the Falconers for the fucking Cup.

The Aces go 3-2 against Dallas in the Western Conference Finals just to lose 2 games in a row, the last in overtime, and in Vegas. Brilliant.

And now Kent gets a prime seat in his plushy apartment to watch the Falconers hand the Stars their asses and brood as Jack hoists 35 pounds of nickel in the air.

 _At least he looks happy_ , Kent thinks bitterly, deliberately ignoring the looks Jack throws to a familiar small, blonde guy behind the glass.

Kent remembers when Jack used to look at him like that.

Feeling particularly masochistic, Kent grabs his phone and scrolls to their last conversation.

 

**Congrats on the win! -J**

**5/16/17, 10:32 pm**

**Thanks! Hoping we can pull out another on Thursday. Good luck in DC. Kick Ovechkin’s ass for me**

**5/17/17, 12:08 am**

**You got it. –J**

**5/17/17, 7:43 am**

It was the first time Jack had texted him since that disastrous night at Samwell. Well over a month later, Kent still doesn’t know what to make of it. Why would Jack contact him now? Why after that game? Why not after he won the Cup, or any other time in the nine godforsaken years after Kent found Jack unconscious on the bathroom floor of their hotel room?

Kent doesn’t think about the fact that his hands were shaking when he texted Jack back.

And now, of course, he’s thinking about all the times that _he_ contacted Jack, from the sappy, tear-filled voicemails to those two misguided attempts to reconcile at Samwell. Fuck that place.

Right on cue, Kent looks up at his TV to see a reporter on the ice with Jack.

“Jack, can you describe how you feel right now?”

The face that Jack turns to the camera is decidedly friendlier than his standard media expression. “I mean, it’s amazing. I can’t really put it into words. But all of the guys have worked so hard for this, and uh, yah, it’s just incredible, really.”

The reporter presses. “So does it feel better than watching your dad win?”

And Kent knows she meant it as a joke, but he cringes anyway, because don’t any of these fucking people realize that pressure to live up to the damn Zimmermann name is the reason Jack almost never played in the NHL at all?

Jack visibly falters, but takes the question in stride. “Ha, well, I wasn’t really old enough then to remember how I felt when he won, but it’s nice to win on my own, all the same.”

The reporter beams. “And I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

“Yah, I think so.”

Obligatory interview complete, Jack turns and skates back to center ice, where Mashkov is wildly gesticulating, looking as if he’s re-enacting the final play for some of the players’ wives.

The camera gets a good shot of the two of them, Jack laughing as Mashkov wrestles him into a playful headlock.

Kent finally puts his finger on why his heart feels like ice in his chest. Jack looks just as happy as he did in the Q. Happier, even. And Kent had nothing to do with it.

Jealousy is an emotion Kent isn’t used to feeling. He’s _Kent_ fucking _Parson_ , Calder and two-time Art Ross winner with three Cup wins under his belt. He doesn’t get jealous, especially not of some defenseman named fucking Tater or some tiny figure skater-slash-baker from Georgia.

Against his better judgment, Kent opens the messaging thread.

**Congrats, Zimms! That last shorty was a fucking beaut**

**6/9/17, 8:15 pm**

 

Two hours and three drinks later, Kent looks at his phone. Jack hasn’t texted back.

He’s not surprised.

xxx

He’s on the treadmill when Bash calls two weeks later. It’s only after his phone lights up for the third time that Kent pauses the treadmill and picks up.

“Dude, what do you need, I was on my eighth mile.” He’d be self-conscious about panting over the phone, except Bash barely waits before Kent’s finished speaking to interject.

“Haven’t you heard?? Jackson and Leiter are getting traded.”

“What?!” Kent steps off the treadmill. “They’re both on my line!” What the hell were the GMs thinking? Now they had no shot in hell of making it to the playoffs this year. “They’re two of the best wingmen in the League!”

“Yo, I know. And fucking get this, they traded ‘em for only one guy. A center.”

And now Kent’s really pissed, because he’s going to lose his two wingmen and his damn position in the same day. “Who’d we get?”

He only hears “Zimmer…” before he drops the phone.

xxx

Kent finally works up the nerve to call Jack after a few days. He’s nervous as fuck, though, which is annoying, and he’s beyond embarrassed that he has to write out a damn script so he can leave Jack a coherent voicemail. So he attributes his heart falling through his stomach to the shock of Jack’s voice when he actually picks up.

“Parse?”

Like a fucking moron, Kent’s frozen.

“Uh… Kent? Hello?”

Thankfully, his brain chooses that moment to snap back into focus. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Um. Ok?” Jack sounds tentative.

Does he not understand what Kent means? “Jack, I had nothing to do with your trade. I didn’t talk to the GMs or anything.”

“I know that.”

What? “What?”

There’s a really long pause after that articulate question, and Kent’s considering hanging up and praying he forgets this whole conversation, when Jack finally speaks.

“Yah, I know you didn’t influence the trade. I’m the one who asked Georgia to trade me.”

To hell with the script. “I’m sorry, you _wanted_ to leave a championship-winning team for the armpit of the United States that is Las Vegas?”

“Uh, not exactly, no? I didn’t know which team I’d be traded to. But I did ask to be traded, so…”

And this is exactly Kent’s problem. Because the second he has the opportunity to talk to Jack after years of silence and unresolved resentment, to _really_ talk to him, Kent can’t help but to fuck it up. So, instead of asking why Jack asked to be traded, like a normal fucking human being, Kent goads, “You just couldn’t pass up the chance to be with me again, could you Zimms?”

Kent laughs when he sees, that yep, Jack hung up on him.

His therapist would call it a defense mechanism. Good thing Kent stopped going to therapy.

xxx

Kent manages to avoid Jack until pre-season practice starts in July.

He knows when Jack moves to Vegas in June because the Aces’ group chat blows up, Deli and Porter making asses of themselves talking about how they can’t wait to meet _fucking Zimmermann, we got fucking Zimmermann, we’re gonna go all the way this year_. Bash tells them to _shut the fuck up, Zimmermann puck bunnies_ and Kent’s eternally grateful for him.

Kent’s mom is worse, though. She calls a week before training starts, and Kent knows when he sees the call come in that he’s in for one hell of a rant.

He’s not wrong.

“And oh my god, what were they _thinking_ , trading two starting wingmen for another center? I mean, Jack’s an amazing player, don’t get me wrong, but the Aces already have you! When I saw the story on ESPN I almost fainted, really, Sarah was so worried! But I’m worried about you! Have you seen him yet?”

Kent gets out “No, not—” before she starts again.

“I really hope they don’t expect you to give up center. You’re the captain! You’ve worked so hard. And you’ve given enough of yourself to that boy.”

He’s tried explaining the clusterfuck that is his and Jack’s relationship to her before. He’s tried to tell her that so much of it is his fault, not Jack’s. She’s biased though, and Kent won’t pretend he’s not selfishly grateful for it.

“Mom, I don’t know what they’re doing with positions. I haven’t even talked to the coaches about it yet.” He sighs. “And Jack’s best in the center, you know that. I won’t jeopardize the Aces’ chances over a fucking position.”

She’s quick with the reprimand. “Don’t swear.”

But then she doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Kent can tell when she speaks again that she’s trying not to cry.

“Kenny, I just… I love you so much, but we’re so far away, and I worry constantly. And I’m your mother, so it’s my right to worry, but I… I know how you were after the draft. I don’t ever want to see you like that again. Jack’s a sweet boy, but I’ll never forgive him for what he put you through, and—”

Kent doesn’t hesitate this time. “Mom, stop. Jack was in rehab. He was sick. He needed time to recover. I didn’t know how bad it was.” He pauses. “It wasn’t his fault.”

She sniffs. “Of course, of course, you’re right, that poor boy, I couldn’t imagine. I’m sorry, Kenny, you know I get so defensive whenever someone hurts you, I just… I’m sorry.”

Kent presses his fingers to his temple, trying to assuage the headache that this whole fucking conversation is bringing on. He loves his mother, deeply, but this is _so_ not what he wants to think about a week before he gets on the ice with Jack.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I promise.”

“Ok, sweetheart. But please let me know if you ever need anything. I’m just a plane flight away, you know.”

Kent thanks her, tells her he loves her, that he’ll call later. Kit meows at his feet, and Kent drops his phone on the counter to pick her up and carry her over to the medicine cabinet. She stares at him as he pops two Advil and lays back down on his bed.

 _Fucking hell,_ Kent thinks. _This season’s going to be a shitshow._

Unable to get the conversation with his mom out of his head, Kent knows as he enters the practice rink the next week that he’s going to feel like shit by the time he leaves that afternoon. Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath and throws open the door to the locker room, walking with the unaffected swagger he’s so perfected.

He makes it a few feet before he’s tackled from behind.

“Parson, you bitch!” screams Keller. “Where the fuck have you been, dude? We were supposed to hit up the Strip before training started!” Keller’s fresh off his rookie season, and hasn’t yet adopted the jaded cynicism Kent and the other vets have towards the city.  

“Been busy,” Kent smiles easily, and playfully shoves Keller to the side. “I got better people to hang out with than your crusty ass.”

“Ha, yah I bet you do, you fucker. Make sure to give your cat my love.”

Kent tilts his head back and laughs full-on, already feeling more lighthearted than he has in days. It’s good to be back with his team.

A few of the other guys are in the locker room already, and Kent exchanges smiles and chirps with them, turning to Bash as he drops his bag in his locker.

“How are Molly and the kids?” Kent’s only half-listening for Bash’s response, training his eye on the locker room door.

“Oh, they’re great, you know, Anna’s really loving skating practice, but Alex seems determined to try every sport _but_ hockey.” Bash leans closer to Kent, and drops his voice to a whisper. “Parse, are you sure you’re ok?”

Kent startles, and looks fully at Bash then. “Uh, yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bash gives him a knowing look. “Because you’ve been staring at the door out of the corner of your eye the entire time you’ve been here, and you haven’t said a single thing about Zimmermann since I called you about the trade.”

Kent bristles. “So since I haven’t been fucking fawning all over him like Porter and Deli, that means I’ve got a problem?”

“No, dude, the fuck?” Bash pulls him over to the corner of the room, away from where the rest of the guys have grouped around Vinnie to give him shit about his new haircut. “Look, man, I know you never talk about it, but we all know you and Zimmermann have a… history.” Bash takes one look at the anger on Kent’s face before quickly continuing. “Not that that’s a bad thing, and obviously none of us know the whole story, but we’re your team, ok, and we’ve got your back. So if you ever want to talk about anything, you only have to—“

“Yah sure thing, I’ll make sure to schedule a fucking appointment the next time I feel like talking to you about my damn feelings.” Kent throws Bash’s hand off his shoulder and storms back to his locker. Bash doesn’t follow him right away.

And now Kent feels bad, because he knows Bash means well, but he’s got the C, dammit, he’s the one that should be giving advice, helping other teammates with their problems. Bash has got the sensitivity of an ox, so if he’s already picked up that Kent’s acting funny, the rest of the team is bound to notice as well.

Kent fixes his gaze determinedly on the back of his locker, and doesn’t speak to anyone as he laces up his skates and walks out to the ice.

Practice doesn’t start for another 15 minutes, but Coach Monty and Pullman are already at the bench, huddled over what Kent assumes is a tablet full of new plays.

Coach Pullman spots him first. “Hey, Parson!”

Coach Monty looks up, and they both come over to shake Kent’s hand.  

“How have you been?” Coach Monty asks, and ok, maybe Kent’s fucking paranoid now, but he swears Monty searches his face for a little longer than necessary.

“Doing great, Coach. New strategy?” Kent motions to the tablet.

“Yah, yah, we’re thinking about moving Porter to first line, and…”

Kent absorbs himself into the discussion, debating the merits of switching up the defensive lines. He’s in his element now, and almost doesn’t notice the rest of the team lining up on the ice behind them. Almost.

But eventually it becomes obvious that the majority of the guys are on the ice, so Monty pulls him around to face everyone as Pullman starts in on his standard beginning of the season speech.

“—and now that we’ve got all of you here, it’s about time for some introductions.”

Kent forces himself to track the faces of the new team members as Pullman introduces them. Mostly draftees, one other trade, and then…

“…and fresh off his first Cup win, center Jack Zimmermann!” Pullman’s voice is considerably brighter when he introduces Jack, and Kent isn’t surprised. Pullman probably shat himself when the GMs told him about the trade.

Kent’s been watching Jack since the kid next to him was announced, so he sees Jack’s obvious discomfort at being introduced as a brand-new Cup winner. Jack looks up, and awkwardly waves at the team with a mumbled, “Good to be here.”

He looks like he would rather be anywhere else _but_ here, and Kent is savagely pleased. _Serves him right_ , Kent thinks, _for coming here and fucking up the team._

But then Jack looks at him then, just a quick glance, before turning back to Pullman, and Kent kicks himself. He shouldn’t think about how Jack is feeling. He shouldn’t be thinking about Jack at all. Kent faces the coaches then, and listens attentively to the speech that he’s long since memorized.

They run drills for a while, trying out different positions and lines. To nobody’s surprise, Jack is fucking unbelievable in the center, ending almost every play with the puck in the net.

They scrimmage afterwards, and Kent doesn’t dwell on being put in the right wing. It stings a little, but he figured it was coming. They play better that way, anyway.

Monty and Pullman are clearly excited when they call the practice a few hours later. Some of the guys converge around Jack, and Kent smirks at the look of terror on Jack’s face when Deli and Porter practically throw themselves at him.

“Probably should’a warned him,” Bash jokes as they step off the ice.

Kent looks back at the group surrounding Jack and barks out a laugh. “I think he’s used to it, honestly.”

Bash gives him a tentative smile, and Kent feels even shittier about earlier. He makes sure to give Bash crap for letting Jack’s last two goals go in straight past his glove, and when he ducks to avoid Bash’s playful swing, he knows they’re back to normal.

Thankfully, Kent manages to change and pack up before the Zimmermann posse returns, so he’s able to leave the rink and get back to his car in relative peace. He knows it’s not realistic to expect to avoid Jack for the rest of the season, but he figures he’s doing a decent job of it so far, so who knows. And really, he doesn’t need to interact with Jack outside of practice and shit anyway.

 _It’s a good plan,_ Kent concludes as he turns the key into the ignition. _Just ignore Jack off the ice._

_It’s a solid plan._

Too bad it doesn’t work out.


	2. Chapter 2

Kent keeps to himself the first month of training, which most of the guys don’t seem to notice, as they’re too busy fangirling over Jack. Kent doesn’t blame them, he doesn’t, because Jack really is phenomenal on the ice, and it gives Kent an excuse to not talk to them anyway.

Bash throws him knowing glances every now and then, but he knows better than to say anything.

After a particularly difficult scrimmage in the beginning of August, Keller’s in the back of the locker room with Jack, interrogating him about the deke against Deli that Coach Pullman actually cheered out loud at. Whatever Jack’s saying is apparently engrossing shit, since Keller has the same look on his face that he gets whenever he’s trying to wheel some woman at a bar.

Kent, on the other hand, probably looks as bad as he feels, since he just got his ass kicked. He’s already thinking about the pre-packaged chicken and broccoli dinner waiting for him at home, which is just fucking sad, and he’s in the middle of debating whether it would be worth the fight with his nutritionist to stop at In-N-Out on his way back when Keller’s full-body laugh pierces through the rest of the noise in the locker room.

“Oh man, that’s awesome! Shit, I wish I could’ve been there! What’d you say that guy’s name was again?”

Kent doesn’t hear Jack’s response. He figures they’ve moved on to talking about the Falcs, and goes back to packing his bag.

“Oh yah yah, that’s right. You know, I think Parse might’ve mentioned him actually, about that time he visited you at Samwell a couple years back?”

Kent’s hand freezes on the top of his bag. Shit.

“Yah, you know what, hang on… hey, Parse!” Keller calls to him across the locker room.

Kent ignores him, praying via divine intervention that Keller shuts the fuck up.

No such luck. “Yo, Parse, get over here man!”

Some of the other guys have stopped talking to each other now, and Kent can feel their stares on his back. Kent turns, but stays at his locker.

“What’s up, Keller?” Kent’s tone is carefully neutral, but he makes his warning glare clear.

Keller smiles brightly, oblivious to Kent’s distress. “Jack and I were just talking about one of his buddies from college! His name’s Shitty, you met him, right?”

Kent’s not sure what the right play is here, so he just nods and goes along with it. “Yah, I think so. Great flow, good with words, apparently likes to walk around naked?”

Kent looks at Jack then, which is a mistake, because the thunderous expression on Jack’s face throws him off enough that he barely hears Keller’s response.

“—yah, and like, some chick who destroyed you in flip cup?”

“Lardo,” Jack helps, not taking his eyes off Kent.

“Ugh, fuck, I wish I had gone to college, those guys sound great.” Keller claps Jack on the shoulder and turns to grab his bag. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, I’ve got a hot date to get to.”

Porter chirps him from a few lockers down. “Is it Meredith or Olivia tonight?”

Keller takes it in stride. “Olivia, dude, I’m only in the middle of season 3. Apparently she’s getting back with Fitz soon? I’m not buying it.”

Porter and Keller debate Fitz’s chances with Olivia as they leave the locker room with a few of the guys. The ensuing silence does nothing to hide the obvious tension between Jack and Kent.

Bash looks at him questioningly. “I didn’t know you visited Samwell.”

 _Yah, because I only told Keller when I was super drunk and feeling sorry for myself,_ Kent thinks but doesn’t say.

 “He came to recruit me to the Aces, before I signed with Providence.” Jack’s shoulders are squared back, and he has the same look on his face that he gets whenever he’s about to drop his gloves. “I turned him down.”

And shit, isn’t that a double fucking entendre. Kent glances around the room, and he’s extremely grateful that it’s just the three of them left, otherwise this would be way more awkward than it already is.

He thinks Bash must be feeling at least some of the tension now, judging by the look on his face when he says, “Oh, well, uh, I guess that ended up working out anyway, right? Since you’re here now?” When he doesn’t get a response from either Kent or Jack, Bash fills the silence again. “I should get going too. Molly’s cooking tonight, so…”

Kent grabs the lifeline. “Say hi for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He throws his bag over his shoulder and all but runs from the room, not catching the expression on Jack’s face in the half-second he dares to look over.

Kent holds his breath until he’s outside. He’s definitely getting In-N-Out.

xxx

Kent thinks Bash may have warned the rest of the guys not to bring up Samwell again, because Kent doesn’t hear anything more about it for the rest of the week. Jack hasn’t said anything else to him either, but Jack’s anger towards Kent is noticeable enough on the ice that Monty asks Kent about it after practice on Friday.

Kent reassures him that it’s nothing, that he and Jack just have some issues to sort out, and Monty gives him a look that clearly says _you’re the captain, you need to fix this,_ and Kent sighs.

Really, Kent should say something at this point, apologize maybe, except he has no idea how to go about it. Obviously Jack hasn’t forgiven Kent for what he said the last time he was at Samwell, and while Kent understands, he doesn’t know what to say. How do you apologize for acting like a jealous jackass?

He gets his chance that night, when Vinnie invites the team to his house for what he called “a motherfucking house-warming extravaganza” in the group chat. Kent almost doesn’t want to go after reading that message, but he shows up to Vinnie’s frankly obnoxious-looking house on time anyway. He’s not expecting Jack to show up, since he knows that Jack doesn’t really go for alcohol or “motherfucking extravaganzas” the way he used to in Juniors, so he’s surprised when the doorbell rings and he hears Vinnie’s yell.

“Zimmermann! Thanks for showing up, man! Now the whole gang’s here!”

When Vinnie offers Jack a beer, Kent’s even more surprised that Jack accepts it.

Jack laughs as he pops the top off the bottle and follows Vinnie into the kitchen. “The invite seemed too good to refuse.” He smiles and takes a swig from the beer.

Kent’s thinking he must’ve misread the whole situation, because Jack seems perfectly at ease, striking up a conversation with the guys milling about the snack table. It’s hard for Kent to admit that maybe he doesn’t know Jack at all anymore, because the unrecognizable guy laughing over his beer is _not_ the same kid he knew and loved as a teenager.

Bash sidles up next to him and nods towards Jack. “He seems to be fitting in nicely.”

Kent raises his eyebrows in response, but says nothing.

Bash presses. “Sure seems more social than you were, when you joined the team.”

And you know what, Kent’s probably misread Bash too, because the guy seems to have turned into Dr. Fucking Phil behind Kent’s back.

“Cuz I was 18 and shit-faced terrified, jackass.” And had just watched his best friend almost die.

Bash isn’t perturbed by Kent’s attitude, and fully turns to face him. “We’ve never really talked about it, but you know you earned it, right? Going first in the draft? I know everyone thought Zimmermann would, but he…” Bash pauses. “Anyway, you weren’t like, a second pick or anything. Aconi and Pullman were stoked to get you.”

The earnest look on Bash’s face matches the softness of his words, and Kent’s uncharacteristically speechless.

Vinnie comes around the table then, offering Kent and Bash another beer. Kent’s grateful for the interruption, and soon makes a half-assed excuse to leave the kitchen in search of the restroom.

He’s walking down the hall, turning Bash’s words over in his head, when he’s bodily checked through an open doorway.

“Wha—”

“Shut up.” Jack leans out the door to look around the hallway, and then closes it behind him.

Kent has no idea what’s going on here, but he decides to make a joke out of it anyway. “You know, if you wanted to be in a room alone with me, all you had to do was ask.”

Jack’s face doesn’t change. “I said shut up, Parse.” Kent does.

Jack takes a breath, and puts his hands on his hips. “You—” Jack tries again. “I’m not here for you. I’m here to play hockey.”

“Ok?” Kent is thoroughly confused.

Jack continues. “And if that’s going to be a problem, then you’d better tell the coaches to put us on different lines.”

Kent’s done with guessing. “Jack, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about right now.”

“You were talking about my team. About Samwell.” Jack looks determined, focused. Like he’s been building up to this conversation for a while.

“Uh, yah? Cuz Keller practically tortured me for info.”

“Don’t… don’t talk about them. Ever.”

Kent huffs. “Fine, whatever, not really a memory I wanted to relive anyway.”

Jack nods, relieved. “Good. Um, you haven’t said anything to them about… about…” He pauses.

Kent lifts an eyebrow. “About us fucking in Juniors? Not really a conversation I want to have with anyone, to be honest.”

Jack flushes bright red at that statement, but recovers quickly. “Screw you, Parse. I meant about my… about my anxiety.”

That’s not what Kent expected at all, and he’s completely honest in his surprise. “No, of course not. Why would I—”

Jack interjects. “I want to be normal here. I just want to be normal.” He’s not looking at Kent.

And now Kent is honestly scared for Jack, because that’s a weird fucking thing to say, even in this awkward-ass conversation. “I mean, I think most of the guys still buy the story that you were a coke addict, so I think you’re fine, really?” Jack nods, but Kent isn’t finished. “Look, I’m… I’m sorry for all of it, alright? For everything. For showing up at Samwell, twice. For the shit I said. I…”

Jack’s face is inscrutable. “You mean the part where you pushed me up against the wall of my bedroom, or the part where you called me worthless?”

And holy fucking shit, does that sound horrendous. Kent doesn’t even know what to say to that. “I’m—”

“Forget it. Just stay away from me. I mean it.”

“Yah, you got it, I, uh… yah.” Kent finishes lamely.

Jack looks at Kent then, for a long, searching moment, and moves past him to open the door. Kent tries to explain again, his voice softer. “Jack, I—”

But whatever was about to come out of his mouth, neither of them will know, because the second Jack throws open the door, Deli and Porter’s shocked faces stop Kent cold. He’s reminded briefly of another, equally awkward eavesdropper, except this time it’s Jack who walks away in a cloud of anger, leaving Kent to stare awkwardly at the two defensemen.

Kent tries to act as normal as possible, putting on his patented, ‘no-nonsense captain’ face. “Get back to the kitchen, guys.” His tone doesn’t broker questioning, and Deli and Porter practically trip over each other in their haste to exit the hall. It would almost be funny if the whole situation wasn’t so fucked.

When he gets back to the kitchen and Bash asks if he’s ok, Kent doesn’t bother to lie, shaking his head at Bash as he grabs another beer out of the fridge.

“We’re not making it to the playoffs this year.”

xxx

The team has the weekend off before the Aces’ media day on Monday, which Kent spends in his apartment, watching old game tape and generally not speaking to anyone.   

He debates shooting Deli and Porter a text, but he can’t figure out how to word it, and eventually gives up. He has no idea how much they heard, and confirming anything that they didn’t know already would be a special kind of stupid.

Kent has known Deli and Porter for a few years, knows they’re good guys, but they wouldn’t have been his first choice of teammates to come out to. The idea of coming out in the homophobia-rampant NHL never really appealed to Kent at all, honestly. You Can Play was created for a reason, and Kent gets enough shit on the ice without people knowing he’s gay.

He thinks about the guys he hooked up with in his particularly depressing get-over-Jack phase, and he’s extremely fucking grateful he got that out of his system without incident.

Kent thinks of all the things those guys could’ve said, the pictures that could’ve been leaked, and shudders. That’s why he doesn’t do it anymore. He’s fucking paranoid.

He has every right to be, though. Especially now. The rumors were intense back in the Q, and he’s sure the news of Jack’s trade lit the proverbial fire.

If only people knew how right the rumors were.

xxx

Kent’s stopped freaking out, more or less, by the time he gets to the stadium Monday morning.

The press is out in full force, and Kent does his best to put on a good show for the cameras. Jack doesn’t talk to any of the media during their taped practice, which Kent thinks they were expecting, because they don’t push too much for quotes on the ice.

They get a really good shot, however, of the one-timer Jack knocks in off of Kent’s assist, and Kent’s pretty sure he’ll find the video online tonight under a headline like _Hockey’s Dynamic Duo Returns,_ or something equally cheesy _._

After practice, the whole team sits down for a press conference, and Kent makes sure to pick a spot on the opposite end of the table from Deli and Porter.

 “I’ve already talked to them.” Jack is by his side out of nowhere, and his voice is pitched low enough that even Keller, who’s sitting next to Kent, won’t be able to hear.

Kent keeps his face forward when he responds, equally quiet. “Deli and Porter?”

Jack nods once. “Yah. It’s fine.”

Kent’s not convinced. “How much did they—”

“Nothing really, they just heard us arguing.”

Kent blows out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank God.”

“Yah.” Jack’s face is a mask.

Kent considers saying something else, then, maybe another attempt at apologizing, when the moderator calls for questions.

The first question comes from a reporter Kent’s vaguely familiar with, thinks he recognizes him from the playoffs last year. The guy’s in a fucking suit, and he’s clearly overheating, judging by the sweat dotting his forehead. Kent’s wondering why he doesn’t just take his suit jacket off when he starts to speak.

“Jake Nathanson, NBC Sports. I have a question for Jack Zimmermann. Mr. Zimmermann, what can you tell us of your trade, and how does it feel to be in Vegas?”

Jack leans towards his microphone. “I don’t know anything other than what the Falconers’ GMs have told me, and I’m happy to be in Vegas. We’ve got a great team here.”

The moderator moves to take the mic, but the reporter isn’t done.

“So you have no ill feelings towards the team who traded their star center after a Cup-winning season?”

Jack doesn’t even blink, and Kent is impressed with his composure. “None at all.”

Jake Nathanson from NBC Sports may not have a great internal cooling system, but he definitely has brass balls, because this time he deliberately steps away from the moderator reaching for the mic.

He pins Jack with a hard stare.

“Are you worried that being in Las Vegas will be bad for your addiction?”

Jack pales. “Uh—”

The table erupts, and the rest of Jack’s answer is lost. Kent doesn’t even realize he’s standing until the coaches come by, trying to settle everyone down.

He chances a glance at Jack, but his face is unreadable.

Once the noise level quiets down a fraction, Coach Pullman leans into the mic in the center of the table. “We’re done for today. Excuse us.” And with that, Pullman comes over to their side of the table, takes Jack’s shoulder, and leads him out of the room.

By the time the rest of the team convenes in the locker room, they’ve all calmed somewhat, but the looks on everyone’s faces are still furious. Pullman and Jack are in the corner of the room, talking quietly, and Kent can see that Jack’s media face has definitely slipped.

Keller’s the first to break the tension. “What the fuck was that asshole’s problem??  Never fulfilled his NHL dreams or what?”

Some of the other guys chime in, yelling abuse about the reporter, until Pullman stops them with a sharp whistle.

“All of you, shut the fuck up! Now, can any of you tell me why you couldn’t keep yourselves together for three goddamn questions?”

Vinnie makes a noise of outrage. “Coach, that reporter was deliberately attacking Jack!”

The rest of the team, including Kent, nod their assent.

Pullman looks at each of them before addressing Vinnie. “And what makes you think Coach Monty and I wouldn’t have handled it?”

Porter chimes in from the back. “We’re just trying to make your job easier, Coach!”

Pullman chuckles, and then shakes his head. “Bunch of jackasses. Alright, you’re getting off easy on this one, but next time, let the fucking adults handle reporters’ shit, alright?”

They all grunt their assent.

Jack steps forward then, his tone defensive. “I’m not an addict, by the way. I don’t have a drug problem.”

Bash looks straight at Jack when he says, “Doesn’t matter to us, man. We’ve got your back either way.”

Jack flushes at that, and mumbles his thanks.

Deli looks like he’s about to start one of his infamous group hugs, and Kent knows Jack isn’t probably in the mood, so he cuts in quickly. “We done for the day then, Coach?”

Pullman nods. “Yah, Parson. Go home, everyone. Hug your wives. Stay off NBC News. See you all on the ice tomorrow.”

They all file out of the locker room, most of the guys stopping to clap Jack on the shoulder on their way out. Kent walks with Bash to the parking lot in silence, but turns when Bash releases a drawn-out whistle.

“Shit.” Is all Bash says, and Kent couldn’t agree more.


	3. Chapter 3

“Welcome back to NHL Tonight, I’m Derrick Connolly, and the man on my right is Sam Williams. Let’s start with the Western Conference. How’s the beginning of the season treating the West, Sam?”

“It’s been a decent start, Derrick, especially for the San Jose Sharks. They were one game away from the Conference Finals last year, and their record so far shows they want another shot. Their cross-state rivals, on the other hand, the Los Angeles Kings, have been a bit slow so far, adjusting to the loss of defenseman Drew Doughty. But the real rough start has been in Las Vegas, as the addition of Jack Zimmermann seems to have thrown the team off its game, so to speak.”

“It does seem odd that a trade like Zimmermann would make a team worse, Sam, but that seems to be what’s happening here. The Aces’ defense is as strong as ever, and Brian Shaw’s save percentage is better than average for the pre-season. Really, it’s just the forward lines that can’t seem to get the momentum going.”

“We might as well say it, but I think we were all assuming that having Kent Parson and Jack Zimmerman on the same team together would create the same results that we saw in Rimouski. At the very least, that they would make an aggressive first line. Instead, they’re all over the place, and the Aces’ record is suffering as a result.”

“It’s a tough break for Coach Chris Pullman, who after eight years of serving as an Assistant Coach for the Aces was finally promoted at the end of last season. With possibly his job on the line, we’ll wait to see how Pullman manages to navigate such a shaky start as the Aces head into their season opener in Chicago tomorrow night.”

xxx

Kent’s been playing hockey long enough to realize they’re outmatched by the time he starts his second shift on the ice. The Hawks are already putting a fuck-ton of pressure on their defense, and their forward lines can barely manage to get the puck into the offensive zone. Jack climbs over the bench onto the ice behind him, and Kent can tell he’s gone into crazy-focused mode.

“Get me the puck.” Jack says to him, and then he’s off.

“No fucking shit,” Kent mumbles to himself, sprinting to catch up with Toews, who’s battling with Porter for possession against the boards.

Toews gets a good check in before Kent gets there, and moves around Porter to send a wrister at Bash, who gloves it. The ref blows his whistle, and a linesman has to step in when Deli shoves a forward where they’ve converged at the top of the crease.

“All right, boys, break it up.” The linesman pushes Deli towards Kent, who grabs Deli and moves him away from the forward, who’s still running his mouth.

Some of the other guys, including Jack, gather around just in time to hear the forward call at Kent and Deli’s retreating backs.

“Yah, you like it rough, Littman? Bet Parson loves roomin’ with you on roadies.” He fixes them both with a leer.

Kent grits his teeth, struggling to hold Deli. He glances at Jack, who looks pale, and fires back, “You’d know all about rough, considering you guys keep getting fucked by St. Louis.”

That gets a couple of the other Hawks’ tempers up, and it takes a bit of effort for the refs to dispel the scrum. Kent tries to get Jack’s attention, but he doesn’t look over.

The Hawks score almost immediately after, and it only gets worse from there. The Aces can’t seem to get any forward momentum going, and every time Kent’s on the ice, Jack hardly looks at him, so none of their passes are connecting. By the time they start the third period, they’re down 4-0, and Pullman’s usually expressionless coaching face has worsened noticeably.

 They do their best to hold the Hawks off, and Jack manages to score on a good rebound from Crawford’s stick. But they can’t keep up, and with time winding down to the final two minutes of the game, Kent knows they won’t be able to come back from a three-point deficit.

His line jumps on the ice with determination, anyway, and Jack quickly gets possession of the puck, racing into the offensive zone with the Hawks on his heels. Kent sees that Keller’s tied down by the defensemen, so he sprints up the boards to make himself open on the wing, and watches as Jack tries to outmaneuver three guys by himself.

“Jack, over here!” If this had been in Juniors, Kent would have had the puck on his stick before he could form the words. Now, Jack doesn’t even turn at his call.

“JACK!” Kent yells, knowing that Jack can fucking hear him, so he’s not comprehending why Jack doesn’t just pass him the damn puck, since he doesn’t have a chance of getting it through on his own.

Sure enough, one of the defensemen manages to snag the puck from under Jack’s stick seconds later, and shoots it into the neutral zone.

There’s probably less than a minute on the clock now, but Kent doesn’t look up. Seeing red, he turns around and skates into Jack, throwing him against the boards.

Jack sputters. “What the f—”

“Why don’t you fucking pass the puck for once!” Kent knows he’s making a scene, but he couldn’t care less. He’s tired of walking on eggshells.

“I don’t know what you—”

“You’ve barely even looked at me all night! Don’t fucking tell me you don’t know what I mean!”

Jack pushes back then, his face alight with anger. “Not everything is about you, Kent!”

Kent tilts head back to bark out a laugh, almost surprised at how pissed he is. “Oh, more of this _I’m not here for you_ bullshit, then?! You want to play hockey, right?? Guess what, you actually have to look your linemates in the eye to play hockey!”

Jack opens his mouth to respond, but Kent doesn’t give him a chance. “I’m really fucking sorry that you had to join this team, because you obviously hate being here, but nobody asked me how I felt about it, you know! I don’t want you here either!”

And _shit_ , now he’s said way too much, how fucking embarrassing. Kent turns to look down the line, sees Patrick Kane mid-celly, and groans. They managed to score another goal because of Kent. He doesn’t even want to know how pissed Pullman looks.

The horn blows to officially end the game, and the Blackhawks fans in the stands cheer their approval, creating a sea of red and white noise. Kent goes to follow Jack off the ice, but he’s stopped by Keller, who grabs his shoulder from behind.

“Parse, what the hell? What happened?”

Kent doesn’t have the energy for this. “It’s nothing, Keller.”

“But—”

“I said it’s nothing!” Kent snaps, and moves past Keller, who’s frozen in place. He feels like shit, knows Keller didn’t deserve that, but Kent just wants to get off the ice. 

What a way to start the season.

xxx

“FUCK!”

Deli’s helmet makes a crashing noise as he chucks it across the locker room. The rest of the team shuffles in behind him, muttering angrily and avoiding eye contact with both Kent and Jack, the latter of whom is holding an ice pack against his shoulder.

Pullman waits until the door shuts behind Bash, at the back of the line, to speak.

“Would anyone like to explain what the hell that was about?!”

Nobody answers, or even looks up from his locker, and Pullman continues.

“Eight years. Eight _goddamn_ years as a coach in the National Hockey League, and never once in that time have I seen a shit-show of tonight’s caliber! I can’t decide if my favorite part was when Kane scored their _fifth_ goal of the night, or when two of my star players gave him the opportunity by deciding they would have a fucking go at each other at center ice!”

Heads turn towards Kent then, but he’s still stubbornly staring at his skates.

Pullman huffs angrily. “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you two, but you better get your shit together. In fact, you better become best fucking friends real fast, because if anything like this happens again, I’m taking the goddamn C, Parson, and giving it to someone who gives a shit about this team.”

The implication that he doesn’t care about his teammates stings, but Kent knows he deserves it. Knows from the way Bash hasn’t glanced over once during Pullman’s rant. From Keller’s shocked face when Kent pushed past him on the ice.

He brings himself to look Pullman in the eyes. “Sorry, Coach.” He hopes Pullman can hear his sincerity. “It won’t happen again.”

Pullman nods, and then turns to Jack. “That goes for you too, Zimmermann. I don’t know why you’ve forgotten how to pass a puck, but you better figure your shit out if you want to be a part of this team.”

Jack hangs his head. “I know, sorry. I will.”

Pullman huffs, and then waits a beat. Monty and the rest of the coaching staff are standing off to the side, clearly at a loss for words. The team’s tension is slowly abating, and everybody’s obvious exhaustion fills the room’s atmosphere in its absence.

Pullman rubs his temple with two of his fingers, and sighs. “I’ll go make a statement to the press. Say some shit about beginning of the season jitters. Parson, Zimmermann, go home. The PR team already has enough on their plate without you talking to reporters tonight. The rest of you, try to smile at the cameras.”

Kent and Jack quietly pack up their bags as the rest of the team waits for them to leave. On the way out, Monty shoots Kent a concerned look, and he looks away.

The bus driver looks confused when Kent and Jack show up by themselves, but he shrugs and starts the car anyway. There’s an awkward moment when they both shuffle onto the bus and pause at the front of the seats. Kent purses his lips, and moves around Jack to walk to the back of the bus. Jack sits down in the front row. Figures.

As they pull out of the stadium’s parking lot, Kent fishes his phone out of his bag, grimacing when he sees the notifications. Over twenty texts, mostly from his mom, and three missed calls from his sister. He sighs, and touches the screen to call her back. He can’t be a shitty brother today too.

She picks up on the second ring. “Kent! Kent, are you ok??”

The long day suddenly catches up with Kent then, and he feels like crying when he hears her voice. “Hey, Sarah. Yah, I’m fine, really. Just a rough game.”

“We were all watching on TV! That fight with Jack looked bad. Mom kept saying she knew this was going to happen. She’s really mad.”

Kent laughs despite himself. “Of course she is. Calm her down for me, would you? Tell her Jack and I are fine.”

She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Sure, but like… are you? Fine, I mean.”

Sarah was too young when Kent was in the Q to really remember Jack, but she knows most of the story, from Mom and Kent. Most of it.

“Really, I’m good. Just need some sleep.” He changes topics. “I got you guys tickets for the Sharks game in November, if you still wanted to fly in? I know Mom said Mike might have a conference that weekend.”

Her voice is noticeably perkier when she responds. “Yay! That’s perfect! Dad doesn’t have to go to the conference after all, so we can all come!”

Kent smiles, and tells her he’s looking forward to it. They talk for a few more minutes, mostly about Sarah’s classes, and how much she hates her Biology teacher. When Kent hangs up, he feels ten pounds lighter.

“Was that Sarah?”

Kent looks up, and Jack’s standing at the end of the seat row, his phone clutched in his hand and a nervous expression on his face. Kent wonders if this is what a truce looks like, and responds politely.

“Uh, yah, that was. She watched the game.” Kent kicks himself for bringing the game up, and hurries to redirect the conversation. “And she’s having trouble in Biology. Blames the teacher.”

“Ah.”

The awkwardness is almost overwhelming, and Kent debates pretending to get a phone call from his mom before he remembers what Pullman said in the locker room, and tries harder.

“Here, sit down, I’ll show you a picture.” That sentence sounded forced even to Kent’s ears, but Jack sits next to him anyway, waiting patiently for Kent to pull up a photo.

He finds one of the two of them from last summer, on their family vacation in Spain. They’re on the beach, smiling, Kent with his snapback and sunglasses, arm slung around his sister. She’s laughing at something happening off camera, which Kent remembers was when their mom tripped over a beach chair and sent their bag of sandwiches flying. It’s a good photo, and Kent doesn’t think about the fact that he picked a shirtless picture to show Jack as he hands the phone over.

Jack looks at the photo, a smile on his face. “She’s so big now, eh?”

Kent laughs out loud, and Jack stumbles over his mistake. “Uh, not like that, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant, don’t worry.” Kent’s glad he’s not the only one feeling awkward.

Jack smiles again, grateful. “She’s 16, right? Does she know what she wants to do? College, or…”

Talking about his sister is easy for Kent, and Jack seems genuinely interested, so Kent responds eagerly. “She’s starting to look at schools, yah, but doesn’t really know what she wants to study yet.”

Jack nods towards Kent’s phone. “Not Biology, though?

“Ha! No, definitely not. Her favorite subject is History, actually? She’s weird.”

Jack looks mock-offended. “There’s nothing wrong with History majors.”

Kent laughs. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to playfully rib Jack. “I mean, sure, except for the fact that they spend all of their time studying dead people.”

Jack looks like he’s about to launch into a History defense rant when his phone buzzes. Kent catches a flash of the screen before Jack grabs it, sees the word “Bittle,” and immediately faces forward. Reality’s a slap in the face.

He can see Jack frown at the screen out of the corner of his eye, and watches as Jack puts his phone in his pocket instead of responding.

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride, which thankfully isn’t that far. Jack exits the bus first, thanking the bus driver so politely that Kent rolls his eyes at Jack’s unflinching Canadian-ness.

It’s late enough that there aren’t many people milling about in the hotel, and they walk through the lobby and empty halls without incident. Kent’s room is closest, and he’s putting his key card in the slot when Jack clears his throat behind him.

Kent turns, raising an eyebrow.

“I, uh…” And now Jack looks nervous again. “I wanted to apologize. For tonight. I was acting stupid. And selfish. I just… I was angry at how badly we were playing, and wanted to score.”

Kent crosses his arms against his chest, key card forgotten. “I get it. But that’s what the team is for, right? You don’t have to do it alone.”

There isn’t any double meaning behind that statement, but Jack seems to be unusually affected by it anyway.

“Right. Thank you. Um, so we’re good, then?”

“As long as you can forgive me for hitting you tonight.” Kent’s apology sounds lighthearted, but he hopes Jack knows how seriously he means it.

Jack laughs, but it rings false to Kent’s ears. “No big deal. I’ve had worse.” Jack shrugs, but Kent’s sure his own confusion shows on his face. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

He’s about to ask when Jack cuts in again. “I should get to bed. Night, Kent.” He turns to head down the hall.

“Goodnight, Jack.” Kent says, watching Jack disappear into his room.

xxx

The bus ride to the airport the next morning is awkward as fuck, as the rest of the guys clearly don’t know how to address yesterday’s tension. They’re boarding the plane when Kent finally decides to clear the air, playfully bumping into Jack as he loads his bag into the overhead compartment.

“Watch your fat ass, Zimms.” Kent quips, and Jack laughs good-naturedly.

“You love it, Parse.” He shoves his bag in next to Kent’s, and then sits in the seat across the aisle.

“You know it.” Kent winks, and just like that, the discomfort evaporates. Keller sits down next to Kent, and Bash goes to take the empty seat on Jack’s row.

They’re about to take off when Kent turns to Keller, wondering how best to apologize for the way he acted last night.

“Kells, I’m—”

“It’s alright, Kent.” Keller shoots him a small smile. “You were stressed the hell out. I get it.”

“Still, I—”

Keller cuts him off, and Kent’s reminded of himself in the amount of snark Keller responds with. “Why don’t you shut up and focus on turning this team around, yah?”

Porter smacks the back of Kent's seat. “Yah, Cap, we’ve gotta show the Wild who’s boss tomorrow!”

The rest of the Aces cheer at that, but Kent only has eyes for Jack, who’s currently laughing at something Bash said. Almost as if he can read Kent’s mind, Jack turns to Kent, and smiles.

“We’ve gotta be better, eh?”

Kent laughs. “You know I hate that fucking saying.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's really living up to its name, lol.

They make up ground after that shitty night in Chicago, enough that by the middle of November Kent thinks they actually have a good shot at turning the season around.

It’s not as easy as it was in Juniors, to be on the same line as Jack, since they’re not as in-sync on the ice now as they were then. It’s a far-cry from the pre-season though, so Kent’s cautiously optimistic. Some of that optimism might stem from Jack actually giving Kent the time of day now, but Kent doesn’t want to look to far into it. Doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that he’s happier playing decent hockey while being friends with Jack than playing great hockey without him. It’s too fucking pathetic.

With the tension gone, the locker room feels a lot lighter, and Kent’s glad that he’s finally acting like a decent captain again. He can tell that the guys have noticed the difference in his mood, but the one time Bash tried to bring it up, Kent side-eyed the fuck out of him until he desisted.

Pullman’s also noticed, probably because their record has more wins than losses now, and unlike Bash, doesn’t have the decency to let it go unremarked.  

They’re playing back-to-back games with the Kings at home, and at the end of the first game, where they trashed LA 4-0, Pullman pulls Kent and Jack off to the side after they get through the tunnel.

“I just wanted to say that I’m really happy with you boys.” He’s grinning from ear to ear. “I know that this adjustment hasn’t been easy for either of you, but I’m glad you worked it out.” He grabs Jack by his shoulders, shaking him playfully. “Great job tonight.”

He slaps Kent’s shoulder and turns down the corner to the locker room.

Kent makes eye contact with Jack, and they exchange looks of sheer confusion.

Jack breaks the silence first. “Seems out of character for him.”

Kent huffs a laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”

Jack smiles, and Kent hates how much it affects him.

xxx

So, generally speaking, things are better. But Kent’s never been able to leave well enough alone, and he can’t shake all those odd conversations he had with Jack at the beginning of the season. And he definitely doesn’t understand why Jack would _ask_ to be traded. He seemed perfectly happy on TV with the Cup, at least.

The day of their second game with LA, Kent gets back to his apartment after morning skate around 11, head swimming with possibilities. Maybe Jack just didn’t like Providence? Didn’t get along well with the other Falcs? Misses playing college hockey?

Kent snorts, and dismisses that last one.

_Not likely._

It frustrates the fuck out of him, because he used to know Jack better than anyone. Now he has no idea how to read him, off the ice.

Kent opens his fridge, swiping at the beads of sweat trickling down his face. He rummages through the back of the fridge, grabs a blue Gatorade, and then leans against the kitchen counter, snapping the top off as he kicks the fridge closed.

Inspiration hits Kent then, and he swipes his phone off the counter, bringing up Twitter. He knows he shouldn’t, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he’s always been a bit of a masochist anyway, so he opens the search bar and types in _Eric Bittle_.

Kit jumps up onto the counter, and Kent swears she gives him a disapproving look.

Judgmental cat.

It ends up being pretty easy to find Eric’s feed, since both Jack’s dad and the Falconers official account follow him. That seems like a dead fucking giveaway to Kent, but he obviously isn’t working for the Falconer’s PR team.

He scrolls through the page, not noting anything of consequence. A couple things about graduating, quotes of various teammates, a long-ass rant about Beyoncé only having one show in Boston, etc. Nothing that helps explain why Jack’s acting so weird. Well, weirder than usual.

Kent wracks his brain, trying to remember what he learned about Eric from the night of the Samwell party. He definitely remembers asking the tall, blonde guy he partnered for beer pong about him. Justin? Adam? Adam.

_“I dunno what to tell you, bro, but like, he’s an awesome baker? Like, the fucking best. Ransom’s aunt came to visit the other month, and I’m pretty sure she cried after tasting Bitty’s pecan pie. I think we’ve all cried eating his pies at some point, no big deal. Oh, and he used to figure skate, pretty sure we’re going to make a play with one of his jumps. He’s the sweetest, bro, we all love him. Well not Jack, at first, but that’s Jack, you… you’d know all about that. Ummmmm… he’s got a mad Twitter presence, and apparently a vlog somewhere, but Rans and I can’t find it, which is fucking bizarre cuz like, we’ve got mad online skills. Hmpf. Oh, and…”_

Clearly, Eric, _Bitty_ , is well-liked, if Adam was able to tell Kent all of that while drunk. He’s not sure he’s remembering it all correctly, but the baking, figure-skating, and Twitter thing all seem above-board, so Kent’s memory probably isn’t too far off.

That leaves the vlog.

Adam might claim to have online skills, but Kent’s got most people beat when it comes to internet searches and social media, so it’s with a decent amount of satisfaction that it only takes a half hour of frustrated effort to find a link.

Kent looks at the clock out of the corner of his eye, noting that he’s got about three hours before he needs to leave for the arena.

 _Should be enough time,_ he thinks, and hunkers down on the couch with his laptop, Kit on his lap.

xxx

Exactly 2 hours and 15 minutes later, Kent sets the laptop down on the coffee table, sitting in sort of a stunned silence, staring out at nothing in particular.

_Holy shit._

He’d known Eric and Jack were a couple, known they were maybe probably headed in that direction when Kent visited Samwell, when he saw them huddled in a corner together, Jack leaning in so close it was immediately obvious what they were. But Kent hadn’t realized how long, to what extent, their relationship had been building.

_“Reason Number 17 to hate Jack…”_

_Yah_ , Kent thinks ruefully, _it always seems to start there._

Through a jumbled haze of emotions, Kent attempts to focus on the facts, on anything he learned that’s relevant and of-use to the issue at hand.

One: Eric and Jack started dating after Eric’s sophomore year. Clearly, when Eric mentions he’s seeing _someone_ , it’s obvious that he’s seeing _Jack_.

Two: Their relationship, from what Kent can tell through the videos, is pretty intense. Kent knows how focused Jack can be, and Eric’s perspective confirms that Jack’s unique level of passion probably hasn’t changed too much.

Three: Eric stops talking about Jack, Kent double-checks, about midway through his senior year. It’s subtle, at first, but there’s no mistaking that Eric’s speech slows, as if to be more cautious, his face less relaxed, strained with a definite tension. Kent’s sure that whatever the fuck is going on with Jack, something here explains it.

Kent thinks about DMing Eric, shooting him a “Hey, man, can we talk?” but that sounds like a load of bullshit even to Kent, and what kind of asshole would that make him, to go around his teammate’s back like that?

His inner debate is cut short when he looks at the clock.

“SHIT!” Kent leaps off the couch, snags his bag, and sprints out of the apartment, leaving an enraged Kit in his wake.

xxx

**August 2006**

“Ok, sweetheart, now are you absolutely sure you’ve got everything? Didn’t leave your stick in the garage? You packed your helmet and gloves?”

“Yes, Mom,” Kent sighs. She’d asked those questions twice already.

Kent turns to look out the window of the car, and sees the city of New York stretching out across the horizon. He takes a mental picture, and thinks about taking his camera out to get a real picture, but immediately feels silly.  

In the backseat, Sarah’s been uncharacteristically quiet, clutching the teddy bear Kent gave her hours earlier. She’s already named him, something after a character on one of her TV shows. Her small knuckles are white against the bear’s dark fur.

Kent can feel his mom’s eyes on him, but she doesn’t say anything else.

They pull into departures at JFK with relative ease, the airport quieter than usual this early on a Saturday morning. Kent’s mom finds a place to park temporarily, and then helps Sarah out of her car seat as Kent grabs his bags from the trunk.

The walk to the check-in line is quiet, filled with unspoken tension, and Kent shifts his carry-on bag to his other shoulder when Sarah goes to take his hand.

Kent doesn’t want to be the first one to break the silence, but when they stop outside security, he opens his mouth in an attempt to speak. He’s not sure what he’s about to say, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because his mom engulfs him in one of her bone-crushing, too-long hugs that Kent complains about but loves anyway.

“Have a good time, Kenny,” she says with a watery smile, as if he’s going away to summer camp, and not to play for a hockey team and compete for his future career.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.” He looks down at Sarah, and leans down to kiss her forehead.

“Bye, squirt.” She giggles as he pokes her in the side, and a smile warms his face. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Bye,” she says, and hugs him too.

Kent turns back to look at them when he gets into the security line, sees his mom’s crying face and his sister hugging her bear, and when he faces forward again, it’s with steely determination.

He’s going to be the best. If not just for himself, then for them, too.

xxx

Of course, Kent wasn’t exactly counting on having fucking Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son for a roommate, something that his billet mom couldn’t wait to tell him after she picked him up from the airport in Québec. He only has to share a bathroom with him, thank God, but it’s obvious they’re hoping to pair the two potential star players together.

Kent wishes he could have a better attitude about it, but he thinks about his mom working two jobs, driving a shitty car, and giving Sarah their neighbor’s hand-me-downs in order to pay for Kent’s hockey gear, for his club fees and training lessons. Jack Zimmermann, on the other hand, has probably never wanted for anything a day in his life, and most likely learned to shoot from Mario Lemieux, or skate from fucking Gretzky.

So when Jack finally shows up, all awkward smiles and fumbling, Canadian apologies, Kent immediately hates him.

And it only gets worse on the ice, where Jack somehow thinks he knows better than everyone else, which ok, he _does_ , but he doesn’t have to be so fucking bossy about it, Kent thinks.

The other guys aren’t responding well to it either, and after the initial star-struck haze wears off, it becomes pretty clear that while Jack might be the best player on the team, he’s far from the most popular.

A few weeks in, Kent’s getting ready to go to a party one of his lineys is throwing, which he’s been told the entire team and practically half of the city has been invited to. Derrick’s hosting since his billet family is hardly ever around, and he swears they won’t notice if the team raids the liquor cabinet. Kent’s pretty sure they’ll be pissed if they find out, but Derrick’s the kind of guy who says he doesn’t give a fuck about authority and actually means it, so Kent’s not going to question it and turn down free booze.

Kent’s fidgeting with his hair in the bathroom mirror, trying (and failing) to smooth his stubborn cowlick, when Jack, who’s lounging on the bed behind him, levels him with an appraising look.

“You should just wear a hat.”

Kent picks up the nearest object laying on the vanity, which happens to be a hairbrush, and chucks it blindly in the vicinity of Jack’s voice. He hears a slight _oof_ , and turns just in time to dodge the brush as it comes flying back towards his face.

“Hey, watch the merchandise, Zimmermann. The girls in Rimouski would be devastated if you dented my face.”

Jack rolls his eyes instead of responding, and goes back to reading one of the books strewn across his bed.

Kent looks at him in the mirror, and then at the watch on his wrist.

“Dude, I know you can’t do much to fix your ugly mug anyway, but you need to start getting ready if we’re going to get there on time.”

He watches as Jack’s face turns a light shade of pink, mumbling a response too low for Kent to hear.

“Sorry, what?”

Jack’s not looking at him, but speaks louder this time. “I’m, uh, busy.”

“What, reading books for class?” Kent walks over to the bed and looks at the one Jack is currently turned to. “You already know French! C’mon, get ready, we need to get there before all the beer’s gone.”

Kent waits a few seconds, and when Jack doesn’t make a move to get off the bed, huffs in disbelief. “Ok, I get it, you think you're too good for us and our stupid parties, whatever, man.”

Jack slams his book shut, and props himself up on the bed. “Actually, no, I don’t. I wasn’t invited, Kent.”

Kent blinks, confused. “Wait, what? No, Derrick said he invited everyone, maybe he just forgot to tell you? The whole team’s going.”

“Yah, except for Jack ‘stick-up-his-ass’ Zimmerman, right?” He looks as pissed as Kent’s ever seen him, but deflates noticeably when Kent doesn’t respond, scrubbing one of his hands through his hair as he turns away from Kent again.

A few more seconds of awkward silence, and Jack sighs. “Sorry, Kent. It’s not your fault. I’m just not… not _good_ with people. It doesn’t matter, I guess. Hockey’s more important. Sorry. Go have fun.”

That may be the most words Jack’s ever said to him at once, and Kent feels immediately and incredibly terrible after hearing them. “Jack… it’s just, you know, the guys aren’t used to being around teammates as uh, _serious_ , as you, and I think they assume you don’t like them? But I’m sure they’d want you to come tonight.”

Jack looks at him, smiling tentatively, and Kent mentally goes back and erases any mean thought he’s ever had about him. “Yah? You sure?”

Kent smiles, bright and genuine. “Definitely. Now get off your ass, this cologne is wearing away as we speak.”

Jack grins as he moves off the bed. “Dear God, do not reapply it. You already smell like shit.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. You’re a regular comedian.” Kent has a thought as Jack moves past him towards their shared bathroom. “Hey, just so you know, you’re going to have to stick with me tonight, ‘cuz I’m going to need a translator.”

Jack’s hand pauses on the bathroom door, and the look he shoots Kent is overtly amused, but grateful as well.

“Sure, Kent.”

xxx

**Present Day**

Two straight wins against the Kings is enough to get everyone’s spirits up, and it’s with almost no hesitation that Kent accepts Keller’s _Party 2nite?_ text by announcing to the whole locker room, “Hey, fuckers! We’re going out! Get showered and grab something to eat, we’ll meet at The Odyssey at 11!”

The room breaks out into raucous cheers and applause, and Kent ducks his head to avoid the smack from Vinnie on his right. Vinnie tries again, opting to put Kent in a friendly chokehold instead, and ruffles Kent’s hair. Kent squawks indignantly, but Vinnie holds on, laughing.

“Welcome back, Cap,” Vinnie says in his ear, and Kent doesn’t know whether or not to be offended.

Everyone boos when Bash opts out— _I’ve got kids, you assholes_ —but the rest of the team, kids notwithstanding, show up to the club, crowding around the VIP booth and promptly ordering three table’s worth of shots.

Keller’s sitting to Kent’s left, and Jack’s pressed up against his right. When the waitress places the first row of shots on the table, the guys make a mad grab for them, and it’s only after Kent’s downed his that he realizes Jack didn’t get one.

Kent turns to look at Jack. “Gotta’ be faster than that, man, with these lushes around.” He determinedly doesn’t think about what he found out earlier.

Jack smirks, quickly and privately. “I’ll probably pass on most of the shots tonight, honestly. Have them for me.”

Kent nods, recognizing Jack’s trust for what it is. “You got it.” He glances over again, and yep, that’s Jack looking distinctly more awkward than Kent’s seen in a while. He feels like shit for being comforted by the familiarity of it, and attributes the stupidity of his next sentence to karma for being an asshole.

“Uh, so, how’s the boyfriend doing?”

“ _What?_ ” Even in the club’s dim lighting, Kent can see that Jack’s gone pale.

Kent tries to laugh it off, reaching absentmindedly for one of the shots that’s just been placed on the table.

“Yah, Eric, right? You guys good?”

Jack still looks shocked, but it’s anger in his tone when he hisses back, “ _Keep. Your. Voice. Down._ ”

Kent throws his hands up, double-checking that Keller is still engrossed in his conversation with Deli. “Dude, sorry, just trying to be fuckin’ polite.”

Jack looks flabbergasted. “We don’t—” He sputters. “We’re not talking about this.”

Even two (about to be three) shots in, Kent has the decency to be apologetic. “Sorry, I just, I get it, you know? Well obviously. So if you ever wanted to, you know, talk about it, I’m here, yah? As your Captain and all? I know it’s fucking awkward, but—”

“You can say that again,” Jack breathes, and this time reaches towards the line of shots when they’re delivered to the table.

“Right. You… nevermind.” Kent wishes he had never fucking looked up Eric’s Twitter to begin with. He and Jack were getting better, and now he’s shot that to hell in the span of five minutes.

Kent desperately throws himself into Keller and Deli’s conversation, about the group of girls standing by the bar, and only checks once to see that Jack is ok talking to Porter before promptly ignoring Jack’s presence at his side for the rest of the night.

They’re pouring themselves into a couple of Ubers outside the club a few hours later, Kent assuring the driver taking Keller home that _no, he won’t throw up in your car_ and _yes, I’ll pay to clean it if he does_ , and _seriously, what the fuck buddy, I’m sure you’ve seen worse_ when Jack clears his throat from behind him.

Kent waits until the Uber driver leaves, steeling whatever drunken courage he’s got left to turn and face Jack head-on. Jack doesn’t say anything at first, and Kent raises a solitary eyebrow at his silence.

Jack clears his throat again, shifting his eyes from Kent’s face to the pavement. “We broke up,” Jack mumbles, and Kent’s reminded of a younger Jack, with the same temper and stubbornness, looking at Kent in a mirror and telling him he wasn’t invited to a stupid party in Juniors.

Except now there’s over ten years and two novels worth of history between them, so Kent only nods before he goes to wrap Jack in a hug, sticky from the heat of the club and the balmy Vegas night.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Kent says, and means it.


End file.
